Highly Functioning
by Ashipisawishyourheartmakes
Summary: John Watson is a soldier. A doctor. He has worked some of the worst crime scenes in London. He knows how to deal with death. But maybe not *this* death. Can John figure out a way to cope? To function?
1. Drowning

**A/N: This will be a multi-chap fic following John after The Fall. A study in grief.**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock will never be mine.**

* * *

The three weeks he'd spent on Molly's couch were the best.

Right after _It_ had happened, John had tried to stay at the flat.

After a week, Molly had come and packed a few weeks worth of his things in some simple black suitcases.

_Clearly new_, John had noted dully,_ bought especially for the occasion_. She ordered him out and into the waiting taxi. John was too tired to argue.

There had been no funeral. Sherlock's will had forbidden such a nauseating (and generally insincere) display of sentimentality.

Other than his burial wishes, the document contained only five words. _Everything to John. Sherlock Holmes._

Molly's flat was small, but cozy. She set him up on her sofa and nearly suffocated him under a pile of afghans and fuzzy throw blankets.

He pretended not to notice the crushed pills she sprinkled in his tea at night. Finally he slept. Deep, black and dreamless.

Unless he was needed at the surgery, John was there on Molly's sofa.

He would sit there all day, holding back the waves of grief. Because beneath the grief was a boundless sea of despair, panic and pain. He had nearly drown in it during the last week at 221B. Most of the time at Molly's he managed to float along the surface. It was better when she was home. It wasn't that she fussed over him, in fact for the most part she left him to himself. But when she wasn't there, the feelings surged, trying to break through his carefully constructed dams. She was like a living sort of white noise for him. He knew though, he couldn't live on Molly's couch forever. He couldn't return to Baker Street and he couldn't afford a single on his own.

The thought of looking for a flatmate - Just. No.

John didn't have much of a choice. He called Harry.

The ride to his childhood home with Harry had been a tense one.

Molly had helped him load his bags in the car and said goodbye to him with heartbroken eyes that were older than he remembered.

"Don't be stupid, John." she had whispered, before running back inside.

Harry tried to chat.

John stared out the window.

After three hours of trees and sheep and numbness, Harry was saying something "...never thought he was good enough for you. You deserve to be more than someone's lap dog, John."

"Don't say another word Harriet."

"Okay, but John-"

"No."

"Sorry- but you know-"

"I will jump out of the bleeding car, I swear to God."

The rest of the ride passed in silence.

...


	2. Maybe

**Chapter 2!**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, I would be writing scripts, not fanfiction.**

* * *

His room hadn't changed.

Harry had been looking after the place since their mum had passed on, and she had left everything as it was.

For the most part.

There was a conspicuous hole in the wall of the dining room, where their father's built in liquor cabinet had once stood. Bits of plaster were sticking in the carpet.

"Took an axe to it." Harry said cheerfully, following his gaze.

"Thank God." He breathed.

Their eyes met and they exchanged an awkward chuckle.

That cabinet had been a dark shadow looming over their otherwise normal childhood.

Harry broke the moment, marching off in the direction of his old room.

After chucking his bags in the closet, Harry steered him back to the sitting room.

"Time for Peep Show. You'll like it. Very you."

John shifted uncomfortably. "Maybe a lie down.."

"Rubbish Johnny. Sit. I won't have you moping about in the dark." She bustled into the kitchen and returned with a sandwich.

"And this is for you, Love." She held out a key and gestured to a mini-fridge in the corner. It was sporting a bike lock. John stooped and undid the lock, revealing quite a lot of beer.

"Wow. Erm..very-"

Harry rolled her eyes, reaching in and pulling one out. She slammed the door and snapped the lock back into place. She shoved John into a chair and handed him the bottle.

"Just because I've screwed up my life, doesn't mean my baby brother doesn't deserve a beer now and then. Especially now. Don't lose the key, there's no copy." She winked at him and flopped on the sofa.

John sat in the chair with the beer and the sandwich.

He watched telly with his sister.

He fancied he could almost smell the perfume their mum had always worn, if he closed his eyes.

Maybe this was just the thing.

Maybe he could do this.

...


	3. Once More with Feelings

**A/N: Sorry, a bit short, i know**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. I just need somewhere to put my feels.**

* * *

Harry came home one afternoon and found John huddled on the sofa. Exactly where she had left him that morning.

She tossed her keys on the counter with a sigh.

"Tea, John?"

John glanced at her, then returned his attention to the television.

"This woman should be dead. They are going about everything all wrong."

He gestured angrily at the daytime medical drama he was watching. "Didn't even use any disinfectant before cutting her open."

Harry sighed again. "Good. So- tea then?"

Her brother grunted in the affirmative, still glaring at the screen.

Harry ripped the door of the fridge open and bit back a curse. "We're out of milk again. I'll have to go back out."

She grabbed her coat and was turning to look for her keys when John interrupted.

"I'll go."

John hadn't left the house since he'd moved back.

Harry snorted a laugh. "What. Really?"

He turned off the telly and stood to face her, something flickering in his eyes.

"Yes. I'll go get the milk. No problem."

Harry felt a disbelieving grin spread across her face.

"Oh, Okay."

John pulled his coat on and was half out the door when Harry called.

"Umm, some beans too then?"

He acknowledged her with a tense nod and was gone.

...

John made it two blocks before the sob ripped out of him. He crouched by a tree, his faced pressing hard into the rough bark.

_Okay. Okay. Okay._

He sucked in a harsh breath, struggling to push down the panic - the sick slow spinning in his stomach.

Even here, so far away from the sights and sounds of London, Sherlock was everywhere.

In every breath or thought or interaction.

Every molecule of John was connected by tiny invisible threads to Sherlock.

He felt like they were ripping him apart.

John struggled to breath, struggled to stand.

_Right, Milk_.

He could get the milk.

He would get the bloody milk if it killed him.


End file.
